My Mother Owes Me Brunch

Every year, I make a bet with my mother on the Super Bowl. Even though the New England Patriots were favored to win the Superbowl this year, I bet on the New York Giants to win. I had no other choice: my mother wouldn’t let me bet on whether or not the Patriots would beat the spread. Neither of us knew the spread. So I reluctantly bet on the Giants to win the game.

I wanted the Giants to win. I’m actually a New York Jets fan, which means that just about every year is miserable for me, professional football wise. But the Giants represent New York City, or at least the New York City area (they play in New Jersey). And the New England Patriots have earned by spite by being the mainstream media’s treasured darlings, from Boston and by their screwing over the state of Connecticut. I don’t hate the Patriots like I hate the Dallas Cowboys, but I rarely root for them

I actually pay very little attention to professional sports, though I do make a habit of watching the Super Bowl, because it’s an excuse to sit on the couch, eat food and maybe see some funny commercials.

So when my mother called a few hours before kickoff, I agreed to a bet out of deference to our family tradition. My mother has wanted to meet me in Yonkers for brunch at a nice restaurant by the Hudson River. If the Patriots win, I would have to pay. Should the Giants win, my mother would pay. The Giants upset the New England Patriots 17-14.

Congratulations to the Giants for their win, and to me for my fortuitous gambling.

Same Shit, Different Year

Last night’s State of the Union Address by George W. Bush was a typically meaningless exercise in boredom and banality. Perhaps because I’m looking forward to not seeing another George W. Bush State of the Union Address I was not angered to the point I usually am.

What angers me more than Bush’s predictable litany of applause lines is the response to him by the Congress.

I understand that it is customary to stand and applaud the President of the United States when he enters a room, but the audience at the State of the Union last night, like in previous years, stood and gave Mr. Bush a rousing ovation, then did it again after he was formally introduced by House Speaker Nancy Pelosi.

Honestly, I cannot think of anyone in that chamber less deserving of a standing ovation than George W. Bush. Yet, without fail, our elected leaders stand and clap like a bunch of trained seals.

I would prefer a parliamentary system, where a prime minister has to take hostile questions every week and report to the elected body every day. I would even prefer the chaos of the Taiwanese parliament to the disingenuous pageant we fake our way through every year.

One would also think that George W. Bush would want to make his last State of the Union Address one where he attempts to salvage something from his time in office with a graceful exit, perhaps striking a conciliatory tone, if not dropping to his knees and begging our forgiveness. Instead, Bush displayed his usual smirk and threatened vetoes like a smug and arrogant man heedless of his own disreputable presidency.

We should have seen a man humbled by his failures. Instead we saw a performance worthy of Bush’s infamy, and why so many are looking forward to his long overdue departure.

Happy New Year New York, From Connecticut...

This year will mark the 100^th anniversary of the large ball dropping in Times Square, a revered and joyous New York tradition. However, like many other New York traditions, the Times Square festivities are a shadow of what they once were. Visiting midtown has become an over-regulated morass of police power and inconvenience. Preparations have been going on for months.

While there will still be large crowds in midtown Manhattan to ring in the New Year, the very circumstances of being in Times Square this New Year’s Eve undercut the whole point of celebrating New Year’s Eve. Revelers will face a fascistic litany of regulations that will hamper any good times. People who turn up in Times Square for New Year’s Eve will not be allowed to bring bags or backpacks with them, nor will they be allowed to bring alcohol. Also, they will stand in the cold for hours without access to a public restroom.

It was once my goal to be in Times Square when the year 2000 came into being. I wisely abandoned that enterprise and instead celebrated nearby at Connolly’s at a Black 47 show. It was a good time. It was crowded and overpriced to the point that I refuse to see a show at Connolly’s again, but it was still a good time and a good show.

This year, like last year, I will be with friends in Connecticut. The beer will be cheaper, there will be a place to sit and go to the bathroom, and I’ll get to see some good friends; that’s the best way to ring in 2008, or any year.

Happy New Year!!

Ho, Ho, Ho...

A New York City police officer recently admitted to helping protect a brothel in Queens. While I’m against police corruption, I think this again calls for us to legalize prostitution.

Think about it: why should a woman not be allowed to sell her body for sexual favors? I agree that it’s unseemly, but how are porn stars, models or politicians on a higher moral plane? In fact, I would argue that a prostitute does less damage to society than an anorexic model or a politician. A politician who sells his or her vote (which is pretty much legal) is hurting all who are governed. An anorexic model helps destroy the self esteem of a generation of young girls.

A friend of mine was arrested a few years ago in a sting operation when he picked up what he thought was a prostitute on the street. “I knew she was too hot to be a real prostitute,” my friend told me, “but I couldn’t pass up the chance if she was for real.” He was arrested and was allowed to call his father to retrieve his car so it would not be impounded.

Like our “war on drugs,” keeping prostitution illegal helps pimps and other assorted scumbags. I’m well aware that legalizing prostitution will not eliminate the seedy element from an essentially seedy business, but not having to dodge the law would allow prostitutes the leverage to organize themselves and create a better environment for everyone.

An Irish Wake For Rocky Sullivan’s

Rocky Sullivan’s is the finest Irish Pub in New York City. But New York City is a different place than it was when Rocky’s opened in 1996. The outstanding pub recently had to relocate to the Red Hook area of Brooklyn. That testifies to not only the excellent staying power of Rocky Sullivan’s, but to the pathetic state of culture in Manhattan.

I managed to visit Rocky Sullivan’s on its last weekend in Manhattan. The “Irish Wake” that was held for it featured music and comedians and a lot of interesting characters at the bar that I had become accustomed to drinking with over the years.

Please make it a point to visit this most excellent establishment at its new home in Brooklyn. It will be well worth the trip.

(Another) Subway Disgrace

The latest column recounts one of the most miserable subway commutes ever. This was worse than being stuck on the train for three hours one afternoon when a moron on a C train ahead of us tried to surf on top of the train. He hit his head on the ceiling of the subway tunnel and was hit by a following E train. That was not the fault of the MTA, though I don’t doubt the loused up re-routing the trains that day because I saw numerous trains passing us by on other tracks.

This latest transit shame was brought to you by our failing infrastructure, the usual MTA incompetence, and less than two inches of rain.

I love New York City and always will, but we’re in a darker part if its history right now, and I don’t foresee things getting better anytime soon.

The Countess: One Bad Ass Cat

I take pride in the fact that my cat, The Countess, is a difficult cat to love. A friend found her underneath a car on 135th Street and took her home to his apartment. I had been considering getting a cat, and since my friend was unable to keep his newfound feline companion, she came to live with me. That was more than five years ago.

Seeing as she left the litter very young, she has become acclimated to being around people and refuses to take a subservient position as a pet. She is very territorial and anyone who enters my home unaccompanied by me will have a very unpleasant time. I have run out of neighbors who are willing to come to my apartment and feed her.

The more people that are offended by my pet, the more she is exclusively mine. She isn’t here to make you happy, and she knows it. Her mission in life is to eat food, relieve herself in her exclusive litter box, and otherwise make herself comfortable in my apartment. Have a problem with that? Too bad.

Thugs Against Violence

Carolyn Baxter is trying to talk some sense into young people who are involved with gangs. Unlike a lot of rappers, she’s actually done real time in prison. Also, unlike a lot of rappers, she writes poetry, essays and books.

The story of New York, and of America, is the story of people saying “fuck it,” and doing things themselves. You can talk and protest until you’re blue in the face, the government isn’t going to do anything for you. Politicians and activists are in it for themselves, and the media is in the entertainment business.

So Baxter is taking it upon herself to reclaim rap music and hip hop culture for those who know the streets and honestly care about saving young people from going to prison. Thugs Against Violence is her effort to bring some reality in the lives of kids living a rap-fueled fantasy of thuggish violence. Think your favorite rapper is “real” because they were arrested? Listen to someone who did six years in prison.

An Atheist’s Prayer on the A train

My latest column on GetUnderground has received responses from the faithful and fellow atheist. Most amusing so far have been the semi-literate ramblings of a Muslim, or an Internet troll posing as one. I also suspect that one of the comments from my column, the comment that is the most well-written and interesting, has come from a relative.

Religious zealots are actually one of the less offensive aspects of riding the A train. The worst thing about the A train is that its part of a horribly run subway system. The real villain of my column is the MTA (Metropolitan Transportation Authority) of New York, which is managed by overpaid, ignorant bureaucrats and operated by shiftless layabouts.

The A train has been my main subway line since I moved back to New York City almost 10 years ago. At first I lived near the Rockaway Blvd. stop on the A train in Ozone Park, Queens. About six years ago I moved to Inwood, in uptown Manhattan, also on the A line. The Straphangers organization don’t give the A train the worst ratings, which speaks volumes about the state of transportation in the city.

Delivery Services Suck

The latest ‘Notes From A Polite New Yorker’ column is online, and it’s already generated some comments from apologists for DHL, which I have found to be the worst of the major delivery services.

I eventually got my package from DHL, only because my girlfriend happened to be home sick one day. Yes, it’s my fault for not having it delivered to where I work, but I called the company and they told me, repeatedly, that they would deliver it at specific times. They lied all the time.

What I also should do is form alliances with my neighbors, who might be able to collect packages for me.

Sick, as in Diseased, New York

The weather in New York this winter can best be described as schizophrenic. In early January, I attended a wedding and didn’t even bring any kind of coat, other than a suit jacket. Even a few weeks ago, when the winter is usually biting, February saw temperatures in the 70s.

That changed over the past two weeks, as New York faced temperatures in the low teems that turned sub-zero with the wind chill. One of the nifty results: everyone is sick.

New York 1 News reported that the current class of the New York City Police Academy is suffering from widespread flu. Just about everyone I know is sick or getting over being sick. I got a nasty cold a few weeks ago and was all better this past Monday. Then I started feeling tired, and like I was getting a sore throat. By Wednesday, people at work were telling me that I sounded horrible. My boss even told me to skip work on Friday (I went in anyway but left early – I would have felt worse this weekend if I didn’t get a few things done, that’s how paranoid I am)

The only pleasure that being sick brings is the self competition to cough up bigger and better pieces of lung cheese. Perhaps we can start a competition every winter among the sick as to who can produce the largest green lung goblin. Perhaps we can get the pharmaceutical companies to sponsor it – but then again, wouldn’t taking an expectorant be cheating?

Hopefully I’ll be well enough by Monday to go back to work without sounding like a Manatee dying in a sea of snot.

A Funeral for ZAK

Joseph Bernard Zak, known among New York’s punk rockers as simply “ZAK,” passed away in December. He was an 80-year-old poet and lyric writer who performed with a punk rock band, Team Spider. I interviewed ZAK several times about his life over the past several years, with the intention of writing a long and detailed story about his life and the history of Team Spider.

ZAK passed away this past December. I was fortunate to know him and I’m glad I was able to attend his funeral. ZAK died with no known family, but his friends and neighbors were his family. ZAK will live on through his poetry, song lyrics, translations and fond memories.

Please take the time to remember this extraordinary New Yorker.

Community Service

Yes, it’s been too long since I’ve blogged. I do have a new column online. Check it out.

I did my community service earlier this year, in April actually, and while I may still be slightly bitter at the bullshit arrest that got me there, my community service was painless and I got another small New York City adventure out of it.

Today in New York we had a scare and a tragedy. A plane crashed into a building on the Upper East Side. Some thought it was another terrorist attack but it wasn’t. It was Yankees pitcher Cory Lidle’s plane. Lidle and another person in the plane were killed. The city was scared, then sad, and will likely brush this incident up with all the other violent accidents and other happenings around the city.

If You Can’t Stand the Heat, Get Out of The City

We are in the middle of second heat wave, and I’m not happy about it. I can’t stand the heat, I really can’t. In my latest column, I detail why New York City summers are more miserable and oppressive than summer in other places.

One factor that I don’t mention in my column: roaches. New York City is plagued with roaches, and the summer heat makes them reproduce faster. For seriously infested buildings like mine, all the cleaning and spraying cannot compete with summer heat when it comes to the fight against roaches.

I’m leaving town this weekend, if New York City doesn’t black out before I go (knock on wood).

Keep cool and enjoy.

Poetry

My first published book arrived recently in the mail – it’s a book of poems titled Poems for Toiling in Obscurity. I gave a copy to Joel Allegretti, a legitimately good poet, and he liked them.

I’m such a lazy bastard though (as you can tell by how infrequently I post to this blog), that I haven’t done much to promote my book. Then again, only 48 people need to buy a copy in order for me to sell out.

These poems are sitting on a box on my desk, destined to be cheap gifts to people (I already sent one to my sister for her birthday).

Get yours today.

The Bright Side of Summer

Outside the air conditioned cocoon where I have confined myself today, temperatures topped 90˚ F. I can’t stand the heat. New York gets miserable when it’s hot. Heat is soaked up and stored by concrete and asphalt; exhaust from cars is trapped by buildings. People begin to get angrier and the summer sets in. More arguments break out in public and more arguments turn into fistfights and shootings. For people who hate the heat, the summer is miserable in New York City.

What keep New Yorkers sane are two things: getting out of the city occasionally and seeing attracted people of the opposite sex (or the same sex if you’re so inclined) in less clothing. For me, Breast Season starts sometime in May and is in full swing by the end of June. It’s difficult not to be caught starting at plump mammaries that are begging for your attention on the subways, streets, office buildings, restaurants and beaches every year. I have no doubt that at least 60% of sunglasses purchases by males during the summer months are motivated by the desire to breast watch with discretion.

So if we must put up with the shorter tempters, humid air and skin cancer, let’s at least celebrate the improved view.

If You Build It, I Won’t Go: Save Yankee Stadium

My latest column is finally here. I don't know if it will change any hearts and minds and make a difference, but as a New Yorker and a Yankees fan I must speak up against the terrible plan to tear down Yankee Stadium.

I hope you agree with me.

Snowblind

Today New York City sits under the heaviest snow on record. We surpassed 1947’s record snowfall of 26.4 with 26.9 inches. That’s a lot of inches. And it’s still snowing.

I’m holed up in my apartment in Inwood, thankful I had enough food in my refrigerator to preclude a trip to the supermarket. At this point it would be easier to hunt small game out of the lobby windows of my building, as Inwood Hill Park is right across the street. I’ve seen raccoons at night and I bet the ones we’ve got here in the city are rip and fat and good for eating. The raccoons would probably not be out though; they plan better for snowstorms than the rest of us city dwellers.

Last night, as the snow began to accumulate, I made some snowballs and threw them at my friends. My days of expert snowball making and throwing are well behind me and I am out of practice.

Freedom from Religion

This is considered the most offensive cartoon on the planet right now. Muslims have killed innocent people for this cartoon, burned down Danish diplomatic offices in Lebannon, and logged thousands of death threats against the cartoonist and publisher of this work. I offer it here in solidarity with those who oppose fundamentalist Islam and all other ignorant ideologies.

Barbarians at the Second Avenue Deli

In my latest column, I lament the destruction of our fair city by greedy landlords. New York is slowly being turned into a Disney-esque disgrace. There are city blocks with multiple Starbucks at the same time that live music venues, neighborhood bars and anything with history or character is torn down and paved over in the name of “progress.”

McHale’s on 8th Avenue and 46th Street is the latest casualty in this war against culture and character. A successful bar and restaurant, it had some of the best burgers in the city. It attracted all kinds of people and was my preferred place to eat in midtown/Hell’s Kitchen. It was where I met my girlfriend and where I interviewed such interesting people as the High Priest of the Church of Satan and Suicide Girl Debra Jean Danger.

One issue I don’t touch on in this column, because it’s worth a column all its own, is the plan to build a new Yankee Stadium and tear down the House that Ruth Built. Not only will this plan build a stadium over park land that has fewer seats for fans, but this will all be done with millions of our tax dollars. I’m a Yankee fan, that doesn’t mean I want to be raped by George Steinbrenner. This plan would do just that to all New York City taxpayers.